Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come To You
by FutureRust
Summary: Henry proves to be surprisingly good at telling a ghost story. Inspired by 'Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come To You, My Lad' by M. R. James.


**Author's note: M. R. James was a Cambridge scholar who became well-known for his ghost stories, originally written to be read aloud to his friends at Christmas Eve gatherings.**

"...and when he was able to look back across the viaduct, he saw that the tracks were empty, and no trace of steam lingered in the air. No chuffing disturbed the stillness of the night. The mysterious engine had vanished, if she had ever really been there at all."

A hush fell over Tidmouth Sheds as Edward finished his story, but it was to be short-lived.

"Is that it?" Gordon raised an eyebrow and looked down at the smaller engine.

"That is the end of the story," Edward replied mildly. "Would you like another?"

"_NO!_ The problem with your stories, Edward, is that they are all the same. They all feature ghost engines which trundle around, not actually _doing_ anything. What exactly is frightening about that?"

Thomas looked thoughtful. "What could a ghost engine actually do?" he pondered.

"Don't answer that!" squeaked Percy before any other engine had a chance to speak.

Gordon rolled his eyes. "These evenings always fall into the same pattern. Edward tells his underwhelming stories. At some point in the early hours, James will have a nightmare and will wake us all with his yelling and when the firelighter comes, Percy will refuse to take the mail train. It's all so boringly predictable."

"If you're so brave, _you_ can take the mail train," Percy declared, his expression verging on a pout, while James glared.

"It's not as though anyone can help having nightmares," he pointed out. "Anyway, how do you know I'm not dreaming about something other than ghost stories?"

"Like being painted blue?"

Edward hastened to intervene before hostilities could escalate. "If you would like to tell a story of your own, I'd be interested to hear it, Gordon."

The big engine snorted. "I don't believe in ghosts." James smirked, intending to remind Gordon of the time he had run away from a phosphorescent Henry, but thought better of it when Edward gave him a stern glance.

"I have a story to tell," said a quiet voice from the berth to Gordon's right.

Six surprised pairs of eyes swivelled to stare at the green engine and Emily spoke for them all as she exclaimed, "_You_, Henry? Really?"

"About rain, or chickenpox, I expect," said Gordon dismissively.

Henry looked at him levelly, his expression neutral. "It's a ghost story, I heard it at Crewe," he said in a monotone. That shut Gordon up. Even in the grumpiest of moods, he wouldn't mock his friend for that particular episode. Over the years Henry hadn't volunteered much information about his time at Crewe and although it had happened a very long time ago, the details were still somewhat hazy to the other residents of the sheds. Henry transferred his gaze to the night sky and began his tale.

"Just after I had my accident, the Fat Controller told me that Crewe was a fine place for sick engines. He wasn't wrong, as you can see, but not every engine sent there was to be repaired. Outside the works were sidings where the condemned engines were left, waiting for the day when they would be cut up. I saw them when I arrived. It was dark and I was drifting in and out of consciousness... I thought I was done for. Of course, the Fat Controller was true to his word, but there were others who weren't so lucky.

"One afternoon, two engines sat next to each other inside the main works building. The workers had gone to eat lunch, I believe, so they were able to speak without being overheard. They had been left alone for a while when the smaller engine, a little red tank engine from the old Midland Railway, spoke up. "Can't you hear them?" she asked.

""Hear who?" said the larger engine. He'd been dozing and hadn't noticed anything unusual.

""The scrapped engines," said the tank engine in a whisper. "Can't you hear them screaming?"

"The larger engine listened very carefully, but all he could hear was the din of the human workforce getting on with their jobs, just as he had heard every day since he had entered the workshop. "You're imagining it," he told the tank engine. "I can't hear anything of the sort."

"The tank engine looked at him very seriously. "Do you know what they do to them?"

"The larger engine was starting to become quite annoyed with his companion's dramatic manner. "They cut them up, and melt down the metal to make it into something new. It's rather awful to think of, but it will come to us all in the end. I don't mean to sound uncaring, it's just that I'd rather focus on how lucky I have been to avoid a similar fate."

""Ah," the red engine said, "so you _don't_ know. You're waiting for a new fire grate, aren't you? The delay hasn't been caused by the manufacturing process. They're going to remove one from an old engine but they've got to wait for the scrapping team to work their way round to him."

"The larger engine hadn't really thought about where his spare parts might come from, and he was quiet for a few moments as he considered this. "I suppose it makes sense, in a way," he remarked. "It's efficient. We'd all have to wait much longer if every new part was created especially for our repairs."

""Even the new parts are recast from the remains of scrapped engines," the tank engine reminded him. "I don't mind the thought of it myself; I like the idea that something of me will live on as part of another body. It's the flame of the torch which scares me. I've heard the screams." And she shuddered violently.

"The big engine didn't see her again after that afternoon – nothing suspicious in that, the red tank engine had only needed some minor repairs and she was sent back to work the next day. His own rebuild took much longer, and as the work progressed, the knowledge that his new parts came from deceased engines troubled him less and less. He was one of the lucky ones, and dwelling on the grim nature of his good fortune was hardly a fitting way to honour the dead. He was going to live his life and be happy, in tribute to those whose sacrifice had allowed him this second chance.

"Finally the day came when he was steamed up and moved out of the workshop for testing. It was odd how different his body felt after all of the modifications that had been made to it, but it was a glorious sunny spring morning and he was so happy to be outdoors once again that he whistled loudly with joy. And that's when he realised that something important had changed and he couldn't hide his distress. "That's not my whistle," he told the workers in a panic. "It's not my whistle! What have you done to me?"

"The workers tried to reassure him but their efforts had little effect and he became more and more agitated. Eventually they brought the foreman to speak to him. "Your whistle was damaged before you were brought here," he explained. "We tried to repair it but whistles aren't our area of expertise. Luckily we were able to find an identical one as a replacement."

""It isn't identical!" wailed the engine, "it isn't the same at all!" But nothing he said made any difference. The workers just kept reminding him that his old whistle was broken and had been thrown away. He could hardly go around without a whistle, could he?"

Henry paused, his face grave. "Can you imagine how awful it would be to not recognise the sound of your own whistle?" he asked quietly. "Even twin engines don't sound the same."

The others contemplated the thought. The tone of an engine's whistle was as distinctive as a fingerprint to a human being. To lose such a significant aspect of one's identity would be deeply distressing, the challenge of adjusting to the alteration almost overwhelming.

"Anyway," Henry continued, sounding strangely dispassionate for someone who was trying to induce fear, "the tests went well and soon arrangements were being made to return the engine to his home railway. One day his driver arrived and he saw immediately that his engine was not quite himself. It didn't take much persuasion before the engine confessed why he was so upset.

""Go on, then, let's hear it," the man said and he tilted his head to one side as he listened to the tooting sound. "I can't hear any difference, old chap. Does it really matter?"

"The engine knew then that there was nothing more he could do. He had no choice but to get used to it. He said his farewells to the workers and the works engines he had become friendly with during his long stay and departed for home. It felt splendid to be out on the rails again and he found that as he flew along, his confidence grew and he began to feel a lot happier. He had been given a new lease of life and perhaps the loss of his old whistle was a small price to pay for such a wonderful opportunity. Every time another engine passed by, he greeted them cheerfully, hoping that frequent use of the new whistle would make the sound more familiar.

"After a while, he became aware of another engine following him. They seemed to be moving at speed – probably an express service, he decided – and he informed his crew that they should find a siding to pull into to allow the train to pass.

"His fireman looked back over his tender as he shovelled coal. "I can't see a train," he said, and the engine frowned.

""That's funny," he said. "The tracks are rumbling as though there's a train behind me, and a heavy one at that."

"They kept a lookout but no train appeared. The driver eventually decided that his engine was just unfamiliar with the rails of the LMS and all three thought nothing more of it. It was an altogether different matter when he finally reached the welcoming tracks of his home railway and the eerie sensation of being followed remained. If an engine was behind him, they had travelled all the way from Cheshire, and that seemed highly unlikely.

"His old friends were delighted to see him, and he them. To his surprise, people also greeted his return enthusiastically and the joy he felt soon overcame his misgivings about the strange engine. By the time he went to sleep that night, back in his comfortable old berth and surrounded by engines he had missed deeply for the last few months, he was sure that it was nothing to worry about."

"If only that had been the case! The next morning, as he went about his work, he whistled long and loud at every opportunity, determined to become accustomed to the new sound. His friends didn't notice any difference, which did hurt slightly, but he had been away for a long time and perhaps their memories had faded. It didn't take long for him to get back into his previous schedule and by mid-morning, he was pulling a goods train along his old route. As he passed through a station, he whistled cheerfully at another engine waiting at the platform with a passenger service, and there it was again: an odd presence that seemed to be following him down the track. Again he asked his crew if he could be diverted onto a siding and again they told him there was nothing there. All day this continued, the unsettling feeling heightened with each peep of his whistle, and by night-time he felt utterly exhausted.

"When he woke the following morning, he felt wretched. He hadn't slept well and he was dreading another day of looking backwards, half wanting to see a figure behind him and half afraid of what that figure might be. The problem could be resolved if he just avoided whistling altogether but that wasn't a practical solution at all. To make matters worse, his friends were unaware of his anxiety, and some even remarked that they were pleased to hear him whistling so happily."

A muted gasp came from the central berth. James and Thomas, stationed either side of Edward, looked at the old engine in surprise. It wasn't like him to be troubled by a ghost story but he was now frowning intently at Henry.

Henry, still staring out into the night, appeared not to notice. "Night services were the worst. It was one thing to feel something chasing him in broad daylight when the tracks could be seen clearly. But in the dark, he couldn't be sure that there wasn't anything there and he spent each journey in a state of sheer terror, desperate to get back to the brief respite of the sheds. Day after day, night after night, the ghostly presence followed him. Whether it was the lingering spirit of the whistle's original owner, he couldn't be sure. There was always the possibility that it was some other unfortunate soul who had met their end at Crewe and had been drawn to him, and the replacement of his whistle was just a coincidence.

"He wasn't the same engine he had been and everyone could see it, although no one really tried to find out why. He had been an arrogant, rather proud engine before the rebuild, given to talking down to smaller colleagues, and this meant he felt unable to tell anyone about his predicament. His friends would probably laugh at him and the humans wouldn't trust a delusional engine to pull trains. They'd consider it too much of a risk, and then where would he be? He became practised at hiding his panic, shunting it to a corner of his mind so he could function as normally as possible. But despite his efforts, the pressure was too great and the fear began to gradually leak out. He became increasingly jumpy, frightened of things the others thought laughable, things which posed no threat to a powerful machine like him in the slightest. He sought out quiet, peaceful places where there was no need to whistle and the approach of another engine would be easily heard. He could often be found listening to the gentle whispering of the breeze through the trees, allowing the sound to calm his shattered mind."

Now it was Thomas's turn to gasp and he raised his eyebrows at Henry as realisation dawned. Again, Henry didn't react.

"He developed a hyperawareness of the workings of his own machinery. The possibility that another part given to him from a scrapped engine might start to cause problems worried him constantly. He clung to the hope that if something did go wrong, he could be sent to the works and rebuilt again. At one point he even convinced his controller that he had suffered a relapse of a condition which had affected him before his visit to Crewe, although it didn't bring about the response he had hoped for and he eventually gave up the idea. It would be a tremendous gamble, of course. A rebuild might mean the removal of the whistle and an end to the terror, but equally it could make things worse if it led to him attracting the attention of another restless soul. In time, the other engines began to lose patience and although they didn't say as much, it was clear that they thought he was at best a hypochondriac and at worst plain lazy. They lost faith in his abilities and although he desperately wanted to prove himself to them, he wanted to escape the awful presence more."

James's jaw dropped and his eyes shuttled rapidly between the green engine on the right hand side of the shed and the troubled faces of Edward and Thomas to his left.

"He found that he became more superstitious," Henry went on. "He found himself putting his faith in inanimate objects – a certain group of trucks, prominent trees and suchlike - hoping that they had some supernatural force which would save him from the inevitable. It was silly and he knew it, but he was desperate for something which might offer any tiny comfort. You see, after all these years, he knows now that only a miracle could give him any chance of escape. The thing which chases him is gradually gaining on him, beginning its journey from a shorter distance each time his whistle sounds. Every so often, he catches sight of something pale at the very edge of his vision, something he can't clearly see which is getting closer and closer. One day it will reach him and although he is terrified at the thought of it, he knows that when that day comes he will welcome the relief of knowing that the dreadful experience is finally over."

And with that, Henry abruptly closed his eyes, an unceremonious indication that the story had ended. His final words hung in the air for a short while, before Percy asked timidly, "Was that... Is it true?" Henry gave no response, remaining motionless and silent.

In the berth furthest away from him, Emily suddenly became aware that the atmosphere in the sheds had shifted in a way she didn't quite understand. She watched in confusion as Thomas quietly hushed the whimpering saddletank, his face so tense that she half expected his smokebox to crack. James looked petrified, his features completely immobile and his unblinking eyes now riveted on Henry, while Edward's expression was one of deep distress, his mouth opening and closing gently as though he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Only Gordon seemed unaffected. "Now _that_," he said appreciatively, "is more like it!" And he too closed his eyes, completely oblivious to the horrified looks being sent in his direction.

James was not the only engine to suffer bad dreams that night.


End file.
